Over the Hills and Through the Woods
by LancerZero
Summary: But Freya's not going to granny's house. Fratley's gone missing again, and she goes to enlist an old friend's help. . . That is, until she runs into her old sparring partner, and finds he has a strange affliction. . .
1. Introduction

**Yet to be Named**

**Chapter 1: Introduction**

Freya was not in a good mood. In itself, that wasn't terribly unusual; her good moods had been few and far between lately. For even now, scant months after Kuja's defeat, Fratley was already missing again. Though that was a source of constant irritation, the dragoon no longer harbored any doubts that she would find him; no, her actively foul attitude was not due to Fratley's second disappearance, though she'd have a few, ah, _choice_ words for him when she found him again.

She stopped walking long enough to unsling her spear – or rather, what had been her spear – and examine it for what seemed like the twelfth time in the past half hour. It was actually the fourteenth, but that's beside the point. Or, as in her present case, the _lack_ of point. The shaft was broken just beneath where the point would be, leaving her with a six-foot staff that, with the removal of the weighted point, had terrible balance. But although that put an edge on her already irritated mood, even the fact that her primary weapon was now a stick was not the primary source of her anger. After all, she carried a number of long fighting knives, and was well-trained in their use. No, she was perturbed most at the sheer _timing_ of the thing.

_Why now?_ She complained to herself in silence. _Now, as I cross the most dangerous of the ridges that border my homeland?_ Known locally as Falworth's Folly, the ridge was composed of a series of jagged-edged crags that made up a part of Burmecia's geographical boundary with the Cleyran Desert. Though it was fairly steep, the ridge never climbed much above 7,000 feet. However, its position between wet, cold Burmecia and the heat-baked desert sands made it a magnet for foul weather. _More like a net_, Freya mused to herself. Entire storm systems would often become trapped between a set of parallel ridges, wreaking havoc on the valleys below. Sudden, treacherous spring snow melts could bring rock-scouring mudslides with little or no warning, and sudden cold snaps in autumn could rival the temperatures of the far north. In all of the history of Burmecia, Falworth's Folly had never been successfully crossed by any major army. Smaller groups of soldiers could do it, keeping away from the more dangerous areas, but larger armies requiring supply wagons and the like had trouble. Paths large enough for the supply wagons were few, due in no small part to the general cragginess of the ridges. It was broken in only one place, where one could get through to the Cleyran Desert.

That, in fact, was how the ridge had gotten its name: a pioneer named Falworth had been utterly convinced that the sea lay directly on the other side of the ridges, and that a pass existed that would allow easy access. After some difficult travel and no few losses amongst his porters and guides, he found his pass – which lead, of course, directly to a sea of sand surrounded by more mountains. Folly. Thus, Falworth's Folly, except that the name had since been extended to the entire ridge.

Some years later, a caravan of dissidents was en route to Cleyra (before it became closed off by a sandstorm) when a freak accident in an unusual storm took out the chocobo-drawn water wagons they'd brought for the desert crossing. A squad of scouts had ventured into the dangerous Falworths, as they had become known, to find a suitable source of water to fill the wagons with while the others patched them up. However, they eventually found an unusual plateau deep within the ridge formation, and after much debate many of them formed a settlement there. It was nearly as isolated as Cleyra, but not nearly so lifeless. And unlike Cleyra, they'd have regular deluges to remind them of home. They christened it Thesdren, and over the years its isolation made it a haven for other refugees, Burmecian or not. It was the only major Burmecian settlement that had not been successfully attacked during what was already becoming known as the Eidolon War. And it was a place where Freya suspected a disoriented and confused dragoon such as her dear Fratley might go.

Unfortunately, Freya could not see much more than two meters away due to the unbelievably dense fog that blanketed the valley she was traversing. She remembered the direction she'd been going before the fog – but she couldn't be sure, since she had no trail to follow, and couldn't simply charge right through a thick grove of trees and brush. She had to go around, and it wasn't easy to figure out which direction she'd been traveling in once at the other side of the grove. _Well, I do have enough emergency supplies in my pack for an extra day. But after that, I'll have to take the time to hunt or forage for food while I travel, which will make it take far longer . . . bugger, but I should've come prepared for something like this! _The gathering darkness was made worse again by the fact that Freya had, for the past few miles, had the strange feeling that she was being followed.

_I wish that I could dismiss this concern as the product of too much travel and fighting without enough rest or food, but all too often it seems that my instincts are cued by something lurking at the very edge of my perception . . . _Her train of thought was interrupted as a twig snapped somewhere off to her left. The dragoon froze. _Close. Very close, not more than six meters – and downwind of me._ As quickly and quietly as she could, Freya drew two knives and prepared herself . . .


	2. Where Have You Been?

**Over the Hills and Through the Woods**

**Chapter 2**

Bright shapes slowly resolved themselves into a nightmarish form, though details were lost in the fog. It was a cloaked man, and she could tell by his snout, tail, and digitigrade feet that he was a nezumi, one of her kind. But there was no mistaking this figure for a friend: the bright shapes that Freya had seen were his eyes, which were literal fire; his left hand, which held a fireball; his right hand, which held a huge flaming scimitar; and his feet and tail-tip, both of which also appeared to be eerily aflame.

_It's a wonder he doesn't burn down the entire forest, walking around like that,_ Freya mused to herself. _This must be the mysterious Forest Demon I heard about, that appeared outside the ruined gates of Burmecia, making his way northward at about the same time as I . . . of course, it's just my luck that my spear happens to be broken when our paths cross. Spear or no spear, he is still a demon - and it is my duty to rid Gaia of beings such as he._

"Why do you challenge me?" the demon demanded in a deep, menacing voice.

"Prepare to meet your maker, Demon, if ever you had one," the dragoon retorted.

Had she not known better, Freya could've sworn she heard him mutter beneath his breath words to the effect of, "Not _another_ one . . ." Then he shouted, "I give you one chance, young fool, to go back home so you can boast about how you faced the infamous Forest Demon and lived to tell the tale. Otherwise, you may regret your admirable - but idiotic - bravado."

"I have no home, few friends, and my family is gone," Freya replied.

She thought she heard the demon mutter regretfully, "Damn." Then he commanded, "**Flee, or I shall devour your soul!**" There was a strange quality to his voice that time, something that compelled Freya to obey . . .but she recognized it as the Voice of Command, an ability common to some demons and warrior dragons. And she was, of course, trained to resist it. Freya stood her ground, and the demon cocked his head at her in a very human (or Burmecian) gesture of confusion.

Suddenly, she felt as though she knew this man . . . if his voice wasn't menacing, then she could almost see his face as . . . _Impossible. I was told a great dragon, as ancient and wise as Gizamaluke, took him – and others – away to train them against a coming threat a year after I left. It's only been two years since then, and with the timescales dragons work with, he couldn't possibly be back. And he certainly wouldn't allow himself to be known as the Forest Demon. Would he?_ She wordlessly took from beneath her jacket a pendant she'd worn for years, and the significance of which only her old brother-at-arms would recognize. It was a crudely hewn silver circle, with two blue opal dragons chasing each other.

The demon jerked back, startled, and extinguished his flames. Then he drew from his cloak a matching pendant, a gold circle with red opal dragons. Freya sheathed her knives and took off her concealing hat, and the "demon" sheathed his scimitar and pulled back the hood of his cloak. There, surely enough, was the face that Freya remembered – mostly. She had to admit that he'd become rather handsome since she'd last seen him, years ago. But his fur was still a deep grey, his chin-length hair was still ash-white, and he was still-

"Gilneas?" Freya ventured. He nodded.

"Freya?" She nodded, and the two old friends embraced each other briefly but tightly.

"What are you doing out here?" they asked each other simultaneously, then grinned wryly at each other.

"You first," the dragoon insisted.

"En route to Thesdren, a city-state roughly a day's march away from where we now stand. Yourself?"

"The same. But . . . Why are you back so soon? Why have you allowed yourself to become known as the Forest Demon? And _why didn't you write me?_" The last question was accompanied by a punch at his shoulder, which he was (barely) able to avoid.

"It seems you heard of my departure. I would have written you, had I been able to discern our actual location . . . I cannot even be sure we were on Gaia, if you can believe that."

"Actually, I can. Once we find a decent tavern, I shall have to tell you my own story over a drink or two . . . So, what happened?"

"I'll tell you once we're moving again." As they began to walk again, Gilneas sighed. "Ah, where to begin . . . Do you remember the stories of the Silver Dragons we were told as children?"

"You don't mean to tell me that the one that came for you was-"

"The same? He was. Fully a quarter the size of the old palace, and he appeared suddenly before our gates some two years ago by your reckoning." Freya wondered briefly how her reckoning could differ from his, but he was already continuing, "As it happened, I was on guard at the gates that day, and heard his psionic challenge in my mind: 'Worthies of Burmecia, the time has come to stand and be counted! The enemy will soon be upon us, and I have come to offer aid to this country and training for certain of its soldiers!' No doubt you can imagine the shenanigans some put on to impress him. Oh, they leapt about, jabbing the air with their blades, looking rather absurd as they dueled with their own shadows. He ignored them, and picked some of the most unlikely candidates, including myself. Though he did make a few of the obvious choices, many of the proudest dragoons found themselves left behind."

Freya was silent for a moment, still trying to digest what she'd just been told. _My friend, a kind, competent, and intelligent - but admittedly unremarkable - regular soldier, chosen over dragoons by one of the Great Dragons? Even though I've heard it before, it is still difficult to believe . . . And if he has returned, then who is his foe?_ "What sort of training did you undergo?"

"We were separated according to specialty and trained on rocks in the void . . ." Gilneas' voice choked off, and when Freya saw the cold distance and frayed nerves in his eyes, she decided not to press him for further explanation just then.

"Eh . . . if you don't mind my asking, who – or what – were you trained to fight?" Somewhat to the dragoon's surprise, this drew a laugh; but it was not a laugh of humor. Rather, it was the bitter, grating laugh of a man near the edge of sanity. _What could have happened to him to drive him so close to the edge? _In spite of herself, the laugh chilled Freya, and she unobtrusively let herself fall a step or two behind Gilneas.

"Ah, delicious irony, one might say. There were thousands of us from all across the globe – dwarves from Conde Petie, gnomes, pygmy dragons with physical speech, Alexandrians, even the undead! – and we were trained and suffused with power so that we could return home and defend them against Kuja's dark armies. Unfortunately, mistake was compounded by error, and both were multiplied by misfortune and foul circumstance. Kuja evaded the dragons' inner eyes, and attacked without their noticing!" Freya noticed that her friend's hand kept grasping his sword hilt, and she put another foot between him and her. "We went through Hell, then returned just a week ago only to discover that our enemy had been defeated a month earlier by a ragtag group of unlikely heroes. What were we to do, Freya? The Great Ones assured us we would someday be needed again, and that even if that weren't for centuries, we would still be around. They expect us to live for _centuries_, Freya. What other abilities have they given to us that they neglected to tell us about?" They trudged wordlessly through the underbrush for a few awkward minutes, then Gilneas shook himself and said, "But enough of that. What have you been doing?"

"Oh, nothing of importance," Freya quickly answered.

Gilneas chuckled, acting more like himself again. In a way, the suddenness of the shift – to the edge of sanity and back again in less than five minutes – disturbed Freya more than anything else. "I know you too well to believe that, my friend. You are completely lacking in the ability to be idle. In all seriousness, now; did you ever find your faithless boyfriend?"

Freya noticed that a chill wind had begun to blow, and shrugged her shoulders to adjust the position of her pack's straps. "Hmph. I see that your opinion of him hasn't changed."

"And neither has yours – I cannot believe you still feel as you do about him. Or that he left you."

He shook his head ruefully. "But that is your business. Did you ever find him?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."

"When?"

"Just a few months ago."

"Where was he, anyway?"

"I still don't know where all he has been, but we met again in Cleyra."

"I see. And is everything wonderful between you two again?"

"It will be."

"Will it now? Will anything _ever_ be alright again?" There was suddenly a note of despair in his voice, and again Freya wondered at the sudden mood shift – and what it was about, since it certainly wasn't over her and Fratley. Though Gilneas had always disapproved, he'd never let it get in the way of their friendship. "She's gone, she's gone . . ." He shook his head as he said it, and cut himself off, even sniffling a bit.

_Who is he talking about, and why is he acting like this_? "I beg your pardon?"

"They didn't know, and they sent me back to Burmecia – in _ruins_ now, imagine them neglecting to mention **that** little detail! Now she's gone, and I'll die out here, never finding her . . ."

"Gilneas, what are you talking about?"

"She's supposed to be in Thesdren, but now we'll never know because we'll never make it before I either lose my mind or take my life."

Freya could not ignore the hopelessness in his voice, and when she put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around to face her, she could not ignore the fact that his eyes were lazy. They seemed not quite able to focus on any one point, and Freya furrowed her eyebrows. _What's wrong with you, Gilneas? What happened to you?_


	3. Confessions of a Dragon Mastermind

**Over the Hills and Through the Woods**

**Chapter 3**

_My name is Gadrendt, and I was the dragon in charge of the Kuja campaign. My idea it was to take representatives of each of Gaia's people, make them able to fight Kuja and his mages, and send them back to their respective countries to serve as the vanguard. It does sound like a good idea, does it not? Our handpicked infantry – with the help of a few young dragons – would repel Kuja's attacks, and all of the other dragons would hunt Kuja. Then, once his last army was defeated, we would destroy him. A good plan, yes? At least, it is when put into such simple terms._

_You may have heard the saying, "No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy." While certainly true, I firmly believe it would be more accurate if it read, "No battle plan survives first contact with its own elements." For that is how it was with my plan. From the very beginning, there were problems._

_The first problem was merely choosing who to enlist - and we needed more than mere soldiers or knights. Every individual would have to be extraordinary to stand a good chance of surviving the bestowing of magic and other abilities, which was a mentally rigorous process that had never before been attempted on the scale I had planned to attempt. Their physical prowess was not nearly as important as was their mental flexibility and spiritual resilience. Those who weren't strong enough in one way or another – while still exceptional compared to most Gaians – would have to be sent home, memories of the experience wiped from their minds. For if the memories stayed, the same thing would happen to them that would have happened had they stayed in training. _

_They would have completely lost their minds._

_Of course, even those that survived the injection of such raw power and energy into their very souls could be driven to madness by the demanding training. You see, to become a master swordsman one must push their body to near the breaking point. To become a master warlock or witch one must push their mind to near the breaking point. To become that which we wanted our chosen to become, we had to do both. For many, it was too much. For some, we could anchor them to reality by bonding their mind – or soul, if you will – to that of another, compatible individual._

_Unfortunately, even that was a process fraught with dangers. To be successfully bonded, every aspect of the two in question not only had to be compatible, but absolutely complimentary. To illustrate, consider this scenario:_

_Imagine every puzzle piece from every puzzle in the world all thrown together on the floor. Now, imagine the difficulty of trying to find any two pieces that fit together. To fit, they must be of the same cut (representing all of the things one might become, one's potential and present self) – either jagged-edged and sharp, or round and soft, or some mixture of the two. _

_Next, they must actually be from the same puzzle; otherwise, the picture on each – representing one's mindset, the way one views the world – will not match, and the pieces cannot fit. If the above two criteria are met, the pieces must then be adjacent to each other on that particular puzzle, whatever it might have been. This represents all of the little idiosyncrasies, strange habits and thought patterns, senses of humor . . . and that simple, innate compatibility that causes some people to simply "click". _

_And remember, one must find two pieces that fit all of those criteria somewhere in the midst of all the pieces of all the puzzles in the world. But now imagine that you only have a limited selection of pieces, and no assurance that there are any matches within that selection, and you begin to see our difficulty._

_Much to my delight and surprise, however, we did find some. I regret that due to the instability of some of the would-be partners we were often unable to consult both individuals before joining them. Please understand that we did this only in the most extreme cases, where there was no other way to save them from madness. In these cases, even erasing the relevant memories would not have been enough, so traumatized and battered were their minds._

_But there was another risk, one that I had not foreseen, and one that would cause some to suffer, and others to die._

_You see, the link requires some energy to remain open. At first, the joined pair must remain close to each other; otherwise, their minds will literally destroy themselves trying to re-establish contact. There have been a few instances of an affected mind being redirected and saved from itself, but such individuals almost invariably become either homicidal or suicidal, usually the latter._

_I didn't expect a problem; newly joined dragon pairs can be miles away from each other. But dragons have been joining together for millennia, and have become well-adapted to it; people have not, and their minds are not as strong as ours at any rate. I greatly underestimated the effect distance would have on the joined soldiers, and was then faced with the task of finding the joined ones and bringing them together again._

_I immediately enlisted the help of every dragon I ever called friend, even going out onto the face of Gaia myself. It was then that I discovered that Kuja had already attacked, and the war was over. Almost immediately, I knew what must have happened. Never before had I experienced such rage and betrayal; but I could not abandon my chosen, no matter the circumstances. So I flew about, locating this and that person, and made my plans._


	4. Frayed Ends of Sanity

**Over the Hills and Through the Woods**

**Chapter 4**

Much to Freya's surprise, she got an answer – but not from her old friend. "The answer to that would take more time than we have. A storm is coming; I'm sure you've noticed the stiff breeze." Freya turned and saw a red-scaled dragon, only about the size of a horse but with the proportions of an adult Red. He could no doubt fly and fight well, but he was only about one-third the size of an adult of his kind, and looked too small to carry a person aloft – though he might carry one on the ground. He looked like what most people picture when you say "dragon", with a narrow, tooth-lined snout, bat-like wings, clawed feet and forelimbs that were remarkably like human hands. Like other "true dragons" (as those intelligent enough for speech proclaimed themselves to be), he had a scaly frill on the back of his neck, with one bony spine running lengthwise through it for every century of age. This one was only around six hundred years old, and just reaching his prime.

Though Freya's mind registered all of that information, all she could think of was: _A talking mini-dragon. What will they think of next?_

The dragon's frill rose briefly indignantly, and he responded, "I am decidedly _not _miniature – I'm a pygmy. And still larger than yourself, I remind you. No, I wasn't reading your mind; you were thinking so loudly . . . ah, I think he's coming back around."

As though on cue, Gilneas blinked three times. "Well. Where am I? Oh, yes. Freya, this is Ragnarok. Ragnarok, this is my old friend and sparring partner, Freya."

She raised her eyebrows at the dragon. "What just happened?"

"Beg your pardon?" Gilneas asked.

"Nothing," Ragnarok responded. "Go on ahead, I just want to discuss the weather with her for a moment."

"The weather," Gilneas echoed. "Right." Obviously not believing a bit of it, he walked a distance from them anyway. Then, Ragnarok told Freya a bit more about the project Gilneas had been involved in, and about his partner during it . . .

A few moments later, Freya finally felt she had some idea of what was happening. "So, the reason for his strange – and disturbing – behavior is simply that he's too far from his partner, this . . . Zovaya?" Ragnarok nodded. "Do we have any idea where she is? Gilneas said she was supposed to be in Thesdren, which isn't too far from here."

"It's far enough that we won't be able to reach it before the storm hits us," the pygmy answered. Freya was about to protest when she looked around and saw that while she and Ragnarok had been speaking, the fog had dissipated, revealing angry-looking clouds faintly illuminated in the twilight. "And she was actually not in Thesdren. Just as Gilneas was placed back at the spot he was taken from, so was Zovaya. And she was taken from a small village on the last ridge before the Cleyran desert, some distance from Thesdren - and over difficult terrain."

"Shouldn't he have been improving since his departure from Burmecia?"

"Neither of them will improve until they're close enough for contact, and there's no telling how near or far that might be. Likely no more than a kilometer, and probably considerably less. The only good news is that they can still sense each other, though contact is impossible."

"If it's as you say . . . then we have no choice but to continue, in spite of the storm." A cold gust suddenly blew, the chill sudden enough to make Freya shiver in spite of herself. She could see Ragnarok draw breath sharply, as well.

"I believe the weather is largely self-evident by this point," Gilneas called out to them. "Unless my senses have failed me, we face a blizzard!"

"This early in the season?" Freya murmured to herself.

"Unfortunately, it seems we have no choice," Ragnarok answered with irony, "But to seek shelter for the night. There is a cave nearby that once was home to a friend of mine. If she's still there, I'm certain she won't mind us staying for a bit – and she may be able to help us find Gilneas' missing half in the morning."

She glanced over at her old friend, who had succeeded in capturing a large squirrel and had somehow convinced it to perch atop his head. "All hail the great General Fuzzkins!" he commanded in a slightly slurred voice, pointing at the squirrel. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he collapsed to all fours, shaking like a wet dog. After a few seconds of convulsions he fell the rest of the way to the ground, flat on his belly.

Torn between sympathy for her ailing friend and fear at the strangeness and unpredictability of his condition, Freya glanced back at Ragnarok "You assume his sanity lasts the night." The pygmy had no reply to that.

"Can either of you run?" Gilneas called out as he stood calmly from where he'd collapsed, breaking Freya's train of thought.

"Can you set a fast enough pace?" she retorted without thinking, before the suddenness of his 'sanity swings' struck her again. _I don't know how much longer he can go like this._

Her altered friend chuckled briefly. "Perhaps you haven't changed so much, after all . . . very well then, we're off." Without another word, he turned sharply to the right and started running.


End file.
